


Lynx between them.

by moth2fic



Category: Sharpe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-13
Updated: 2007-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A story written for a crack!fic challenge. Writers were asked to use animals in their fics, which could be crazy or serious. We were given a list, which included pumas. I am concerned for the Iberian lynx, which is facing possible extinction and severe reduction of habitat. I sometimes wear a T-shirt, bought in lynx country, as a sign of my support. So think of it as a puma - a European sort of puma...</p><p>Disclaimer: not mine! They belong to Bernard Cornwell and Carlton TV. Just playing...</p><p>Many thanks to Fledge for the beta work!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lynx between them.

**Author's Note:**

> A story written for a crack!fic challenge. Writers were asked to use animals in their fics, which could be crazy or serious. We were given a list, which included pumas. I am concerned for the Iberian lynx, which is facing possible extinction and severe reduction of habitat. I sometimes wear a T-shirt, bought in lynx country, as a sign of my support. So think of it as a puma - a European sort of puma...
> 
> Disclaimer: not mine! They belong to Bernard Cornwell and Carlton TV. Just playing...
> 
> Many thanks to Fledge for the beta work!

This is not a confession. I need no absolution or Hail Marys for what happened - or didn't - or - oh make your own minds up.

We were sent out as advance scouts. Whenever the powers that be get worried about the enemy creeping and crawling through the picas and arroyos they think of us. Not that we're any better at scouting than the rest of them - some good, some bad, and some plain ugly - but at least we are used to sharp shooting from hidden positions rather than facing the foe head on and trusting to blind luck. Sometimes we even survive, which is more than you can say for the rest of them.

Anyway, there we were, as hidden as we could get in our dark green uniforms in a brown dry summer. One day the eedjits back in London will think about colours and seasons and visibility. And pigs might fly.

We were a very long way from the lines and an even longer way from food and water. Well, of course we'd brought rations with us but some of the lads had eaten theirs on the first night, not having expected to be out there so long. Richard played hell with them but still gave up half his own rations to help them out so what could the rest of us do? And we were rationing water but in that heat . . . Let's just say we were all hoping for a stream, praying for a river, and sucking pebbles to keep our mouths from drying out completely.

On the third night out I heard one of the lads groaning and calling for his mammy, a bad sign in a tough group like ours, even if he was asleep at the time. The Major expects us to control our dreams, which brings me to the point of my story.

It was the fourth night and we'd refilled our canteens from a brackish pool, hoping hopelessly that no creatures had defiled it first. Someone had shot a couple of rabbits, the sound of the rifle echoing crazily down the scree slopes and probably advertising our presence to the Frenchies as good as if we'd shown a flag. But we enjoyed the stew. Thyme and wild onions make an excellent dish with a plump rabbit, even if there's no other seasoning to be had. We doused the fire as soon as the meal was ready. There was no sense sending a smoke signal and no sense adding to the heat of the night. Sharpe wouldn't let us sing - said that we might just have escaped notice so far, that sometimes rocks crack like shots in the heat, and sometimes brush fires smoke but he'd never heard of any natural phenomena that sang like us chosen men. So there was nothing to do except turn in early and sleep.

I was tired, like everyone, the Major included, if he'd only admit it, but I was coping quite well on the rabbit stew and the sludgy water, or at least, so I thought. I felt at one with our surroundings and had begun to sense the rhythms of this wild place. Richard said he felt as though Spain had seeped into his bones. So far on this benighted expedition I'd dreamed only of water - the peaty pools and streams of Ireland to be exact, with me and my brothers wading and splashing and playing the fool. That's what I expected this night. I have sufficient control over my sleeping mind to have battened down the hatches on all manifestations of my obsession. The obsession who commands our little company.

About midnight, I thought I woke. Everything was still and all the lads were sleeping, little snores and snorts rippling the stillness. A grasshopper or a cicada or some such bug was skittering away like mad and the moon was full. Otherwise, there was nothing going on and certainly nothing to tell me I was dreaming. I couldn't see the Major but I remembered that he'd settled down just at my back so unless I rolled over, I wouldn't see him, would I?

Then I felt the lightest of breaths on the back of my neck. It wasn't even a puff of air, just a faint damp warmth teasing my skin. I froze. It was that or get up and run, and somehow the latter didn't seem a sensible option. Then a rasping tongue began to lick me. Now in Ireland we had kittens aplenty and often enough we smuggled them into our bed so I know the feel of a cat's tongue.

I also knew there were no house cats or even farm cats in these hills forsaken by God, man, and most of the British army. My brain processed these thoughts quite slowly and then went on to consider the possibilities, which boiled down to a wild cat of some sort. Not, I might add, necessarily a friendly wild cat, but surely one with a very large tongue.

So I stayed frozen, though Mother Mary knows my legs would have preferred to run.

Very sharp teeth nibbled my ear but didn't break the skin. Then silky hairs tickled my cheek and I unfroze sufficiently to look. I felt a desperate need to know what was tasting my face before it started in on its main course. And then I wished I'd stayed ignorant.

Silhouetted against the moon was a full grown Iberian lynx. His green eyes shone in his absurdly wise face, a face given the look of a village elder by the wispy beard either side of the firm jaw. The lynx is one of the well kept secrets of inland Spain, at once prettier and older looking than other middle sized cats. This one lived up to his reputation, wild, shy, proud and strong, all rippling muscles and gleaming coat. He lowered his head and butted me gently, his absurdly large ear tufts tickling my brow. Then he prodded me with his huge padded paw, claws well retracted (to my relief), till I was positioned beneath him. I was faintly aware of the soft sandy golden quality of his coat, and completely aware of his strength when I moved (just enough to relieve a cramped arm), and got an answering deep growl. I sensed, belatedly, that Richard was not beside me, wasn't anywhere in fact, but somehow I wasn't truly worried.

I think that was the moment I realised that my own hands had golden hair and neat claws, and that I must be dreaming because I was as much a lynx as he was.

So if I was dreaming I could relax. Well, maybe, but I was, so far as I knew, just as male as always, and this might be about territory. I would have to be careful. I made a questioning sound in my throat and hoped my submissive posture would pacify him. I had no wish to be mauled, dream or not.

It was not about territory. He made that abundantly clear. Or, rather, it was, but not a territory delineated by rocks and shrubs but rather a country that had as its borders the limits of my body.

He took me by the neck as is the way of cats and, moulding me to his desires, explored his new terrain.

How many different counties are there in an individual land? How many byways? How many paths to pleasure? Every time he found a new place he purred, low and satisfied. Every time he came upon a new landscape he raked it with his eyes before marking it with his scent. Every time he claimed me as his own I acknowledged his overlordship and whimpered my acquiescence.

He was so beautiful, my proud conqueror, so strong, so overwhelming in his attentions. And so sweetly grateful when eventually he collapsed on me, his body heavy and hot, boneless in repletion and satiety.

It was a dream, wasn't it? None of it was my fault, was it? There was nothing to confess to the priest or ask forgiveness for. All the saints could not have found me guilty of the least sin.

We slept in the end, curled like kittens but glad to be without their innocence. And when we woke at dawn I made sure to move well away from my major's bedroll before any of the men rose. And despite the heat I wore my jacket fastened that day to hide the proprietary bite marks on my neck.

The canteens were ominously empty but at least we were heading back, our task done. I haven't described it here - you all know the mind numbing boredom of these expeditions. We came, of course, to the pool where we'd filled our flasks before.

Standing proudly, as if on guard, was a lynx. As we watched, it bent its head and lapped at the pool. It drank so much that we feared the water might vanish into its beard-fringed jaws. I must have gasped, remembering the dream, or vision, or whatever. Then I saw Major Sharpe and took in his reaction.

He had advanced towards the pool and was glowering at the beast. His eyes were narrowed and his whole stance radiated fury and jealousy and territorial possession. Everyone noticed, not just me. Mary, Mother of God, you couldn't not have noticed. It was just to be hoped the others thought his feelings were about the water. I knew better. He pushed me behind him careless of my safety, just determined to keep me from the animal at the water's edge. I had no idea what to do. The saints above know I had no idea of approaching the creature. Or it me.

Then the situation resolved itself. A pair of cubs crept out of the scrub and padded cautiously towards their mother.

When he realised he'd been facing down a female Richard laughed, and couldn't stop laughing. He hugged me, tears of amusement streaming down his cheeks, then held his knees, and heaved with the deep laughs that came from his innermost being.

The lynx surveyed him with what could almost have been described as a smirk on her face then shepherded her cubs away from the strange animals that were making such uncontrolled sounds near her waterhole. The other men were laughing too, scrambling to the water, relieved to be able to drink and fill their containers, glad their major had seen off the threat to their water supplies.

When he could breathe normally again, Richard turned to me.

'A fine leader I make, eh, Patrick?' he murmured, with a lift of his beautiful eyebrows, amusement still dancing in his eyes. (And I, of course, heaven help me, had to discount the sarcasm and wholeheartedly agree). Then he joined the others, his fair hair glinting tawny in the sun, and I rubbed my throat as I watched. He glanced up at me, one of his lop-sided grins shining, and fingered his own collar.

'Dreaming, Sergeant?' he asked.


End file.
